


spring cleaning

by Larrant



Series: household drabbles (tylliot) [1]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, all the OOC, all the OOC ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:05:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot was meant to have gotten back to his apartment... 26 minutes ago. This is unacceptable.</p>
<p>So instead, he decides to do what anyone would. It's time for house cleaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spring cleaning

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is **nothingtosee--here.tumblr.com** if you want to pop in any requests :3. I always always always need more inspiration or ideas Q_Q. pls? :D  
>  a post on tumblr inspired me to do dis. shit i can't remember who. its been too long. welp this is super late and i've been gone for ages so this is an apology too before i really get back into it. >.>  
> basically i wrote this in 10 minutes and decided it would be an okay offering to people.

There might be a hole worn in the carpet from where Tyrell has been tapping his foot for the past twenty minutes.

It's been, he thinks offhandedly, glancing again at his watch for the twenty-sixth time in twenty-six minutes. It's been twenty-six minutes. Elliot should have arrived almost half an hour ago. There's a faint tick in his left eyebrow that has been there for awhile now.

"..."

And few seconds after that, at exactly twenty six and a half minutes, he decides that sitting on this ratty torn looking sofa is entirely useless for his purposes. He stands fluidly, poised like a sea serpent ready to strike. This level of lateness is unacceptable.

_It is time._

Time for a little... house cleaning.

The latex gloves he always keeps with him make a menacing snap when he pulls them on.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze turns to the corner. Flipper the dog looks back at him, gaze baleful and ears drooping. There is a sunken wet patch on the carpet next to him. Tyrell just smiles. A warm, foreboding smile.

Flipper whines.

Five minutes later, after a session of eye contact and the unspoken agreement of never peeing again on the carpet, the dog has retreated, whimpering, to a corner along with a bowl of dogfood (that was stored in the cupboard) and Tyrell is cleaning out Qwerty's mini-tank. The fish too is disgruntled, sitting in a cup to the side and swimming around its new temporary home- glaring at Tyrell for the sudden upheaval of its house. But clearly it's too afraid of him to make direct eye contact, because every time he fully looks over, the fish has turned its tail and is swimming in circles.

Good.

He scrubs the tank with unnecessary violence.

After he's done, he unceremoniously dumps Qwerty back in his tank- half fresh water and half of the old water. Fish don't like being in completely new surroundings, and he'd be damned if he accidentally killed Elliot's pet fish and ended up exiled from the apartment. That would not be good.

The rest of the apartment is harder to clean- the vacuum cleaner is both hard to find and harder to get working. It wheezes like a 90 year old when he tries to start it. Apparently a kick sends it working. He needs to replace _so_ many things in Elliot's apartment; everything is so... cluttered.

And, perfectionist that he is, when he starts to vacuum the carpet, he pauses for twelve seconds and wonders whether or not they should replace the carpet, as well. It's at least two years old, and looks rather stained in places.

... But that would take too long, Elliot will probably be back by then. He decides to stick with light cleaning today.

"Light cleaning", which explains why he just cleans and dusts and moves the furniture to better positions and then vacuums the furniture and everything on it instead of just replacing the furniture entirely.

When he gets to clothing, it gets easier. Elliot's closet is infinitely more simple than Tyrell's own walk-in closet. Looking inside, it's made up of nothing more than black. Black hoodies, black jeans, black T-shirts, black jumpers. He sorts it in order of colour- black, black, black, slightly washed off colour black, darker black, black, light black, matt black. It's like fifty shades of black all over again, except for with clothing instead.

It is an hour and forty two minutes, five minutes after he's finished and is sitting, pleased with himself, on the couch, that he hears Elliot coming. It's more of a rattling sound of a key in a lock that does it.

And then the door swings open.

Elliot enters in all his black hooded and sunken eyed glory, a bag of ramen noodles and microwave meals in hand. He doesn't even need to stare at the sparkling apartment to see what's changed.

There is a moment of silence.

The younger man slowly pivots on his heel, takes a step in the (wrong) direction, and then the door is shut again.

"... How melodramatic." Tyrell furrows his brows.

The empty room furrows its brow back.


End file.
